


But It's Better If You Do

by louisfake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Burlesque, Drag Queens, M/M, drag cabaret?, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisfake/pseuds/louisfake
Summary: “This is exactly where you like me, isn’t it,” Malfoy mutters hoarsely in his ear, and Harry hears the unspokenbeneath you, defeated.Harry laughs softly, lowering his arse onto his lap.---The burlesque!Harry fever-dream oneshot that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 103
Collections: HP Pop Punk Fest 2021





	But It's Better If You Do

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you wake up to a Panic! at the Disco prompt and think _haha what if...............unless????_
> 
> Or maybe that's just me. Either way, I've lost the plot and could not move forward with my life without writing this. 
> 
> Idk if I'll ever be able to write a fic where I don't make Harry dance in some way. Sorry, Harry.
> 
> (tw alcohol, smoking)

_Well isn’t this exactly where you like me?  
I’m exactly where you like me, you know  
Praying for love and a lap dance  
And paying in naivety _  


“Five minutes, sweetie,” Britannica says, peeking into his dressing room and giving him a wink. 

Harry smiles back and nods silently at her in the reflection, adjusting the line of his long, black wig, dusting the lace front with foundation and setting powder. The bright lights of the mirror glint off the glitter on his eyelids and cheekbones, and the faux fur collar of his gown keeps sliding off one shoulder, but that’s alright, because it’s coming off soon anyway. 

Not for the first time, he wishes he could wear coloured contacts, but the queens would never let him. _“Your eyes are saturated enough, honey.”_ He’d tried to tell them that was the problem—his bottle green eyes were his most distinct feature. It was too close to _him…_ to _Harry._ They’d only given him a pitying look, shaking their heads, their huge wigs rustling over their shoulders. 

He picks up the deep purple lipstick to even the edges around his lips, fuller, darker, more unrecognizable with each stroke. The false eyelashes are heavy on his eyelids, but the weight of them only gives him a more sultry expression, and he likes them big, to hide his eyes better. 

  
***  


After the War, Harry hadn’t wanted to be himself. 

The Wizarding World worshipped him, called him _hero,_ called him _Saviour,_ called him _golden boy._ No one called him what he was: an undead, broken, angry, grieving child soldier, with no one left to fight. 

He’d joined the Aurors just to make up for it, but there was only so much unnecessary violence the Ministry would accept from an Auror. They’d sacked him once he finally snapped and broke the Head Auror’s nose. 

Unfortunately, Harry didn’t know how to be anything else. He was raised to fight, to throw himself into danger, to sacrifice himself and save the day and protect his friends. He didn’t know who he was without the constant threat of violence, and it only made him feel more on edge, _all the time._

So he’d spent a lot of time wandering around muggle London with a handle of whiskey in a brown bag, looking for what, he didn’t know. A new neighborhood every night, sleeping off his hangovers during the day, waking up around six in the evening to change out of his clothes, stuff some beans on toast in his mouth, and do it all again. Sometimes he found a fight, sometimes he found a fuck. Sometimes he found a curry place open late and gorged himself on Vindaloo, before unwisely apparating himself home and passing out in an empty bathtub. 

Ron and Hermione had worried incessantly about him, but they’d have been doing that anyway. He might as well have given them something to worry about. Besides, they were fine. They were getting married, soon, they’d moved in together, they were starting their fulfilling careers, they were everything the Ministry called them: _heroes. Golden._

In one of his nightly drunken walkabouts, he’d wandered into a small cabaret in SoHo, intrigued by the colourful neon lights and posters. So intrigued, he’d let the bouncer take away his bottle, and walked in empty-handed. He had nothing better to do. 

The beautiful woman that came out onto the stage had speared him to his seat, swaying sinuously in six inch heels, adorned in corsets and lace and sparkling things. Her blonde hair flowed down to nearly her thighs, but it never got in her way, swishing gently with her sensual movements. He couldn’t actually tell if she was singing, or just pretending to. Her features were exaggerated and accentuated in every possible way, and Harry was so overwhelmed he forgot to buy a drink. He couldn’t look away. 

He’d never seen anything like it, ever. She’d winked at him from the stage as she slid into a split with her back against the pole, her hair pooling around her, and Harry had thought he might faint. He couldn’t tell what he was feeling. He felt very small, and very naïve, and somewhere between aroused and enthralled. The audience had whooped and cheered for her, throwing money and roses at her feet. 

Harry had recognized suddenly what it was that had him paralyzed in his red velvet seat: _power._ But not like any he’d ever seen before. 

He’d gone back every night that week, mesmerized by the tall women on the stage with dramatic features and broad shoulders, hypnotized by the power they held over everyone in the room—bringing the audience to their knees, without an ounce of violence. 

It still somehow felt _dangerous._ Thrilling. He couldn’t get enough. 

By the sixth night, the girls had actually approached him at the bar after the show, and asked his name. He’d spluttered and blushed and spat out “Harry,” and realized abruptly, seeing their flat chests up close, hearing their deep voices, that these were not women like he was used to. He was utterly entranced. 

They’d invited him to their dressing room, apparently intrigued by him. They’d chatted and laughed with him, while he watched all of the extravagance peel off layer by layer, revealing happy, flushed, confident humans. 

After that, they never called him “Harry”—they called him “honey,” or “sweetie,” and he answered to it every time. They talked with him after every show, and dressed him up and painted his face, and taught him how to do the splits. The first time he saw his reflection enhanced with their artistry, his stomach fluttered with nerves, with potential, with the excitement of seeing himself as someone else. 

They looked after him, and got to know him as much as muggles could. Whenever some bloke got too drunk and tried to start a fight at the bar, they’d hold Harry back physically, and ignore his protests, his boiling blood making him itch to throw the punch. _“Remember, sweetie. We’re protected, in here. We already have a knight in shining armour.”_ They’d make him watch the bouncer, Jim, calmly escort the arsehole out, then give him a wig to brush to take his mind off of it. He’d fuss about being made to do their chores, but they all knew he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. 

“Why don’t you get up on stage, honey?” Britannica had asked, several months into this odd, new friendship, this residency in someone else’s dressing room. Harry had blushed and scoffed at her, from his seat on the rickety folding chair next to the makeup counter. He’d tried to drink when he came in that day, but they’d taken the glass from him as soon as they saw it. 

“I can’t dance like you can.”

“Well, you can fight, can’t you?” she retorted, frowning at him with one eyebrow glued down. Harry furrowed his brows in confusion. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Your body already knows how to move. Dancing isn’t fighting, of course, but it’s moving instinctually, without thinking about it. You have rhythm, you have grace. Imagine, being able to let your body move however it wants, without hurting anyone.” 

“But I’m not like you,” Harry said, with the unspoken _I don’t have that kind of power_ floating in the air after it. _I only have violence._

“I’m not like me, either,” she replied. “I’m whoever I want to be, up there. Haven’t you ever wanted to try being someone else, for a bit?”

Harry couldn’t say _yes_ fast enough, and somehow, a couple of weeks later, he was in six inch heels and a long black wig, heavy eyelashes and a tight corset, relishing in the freedom of being someone else, under a spotlight, just for a bit. 

He never told anyone else. He didn’t look for another job, and his friends didn’t ask how he spent his nights, as long as he showed up to dinner sometimes. They noticed his improving mental health, his more frequent smiles, and they didn’t question it, which was exactly how Harry preferred it. He wasn’t _Harry,_ in that little SoHo cabaret surrounded by red velvet, on that stage with roses at his feet, in a small crowd of queer muggle strangers who adored him. He wasn’t _hero_ , or _Saviour,_ or _golden._ They called him _Honey,_ and he was whoever he wanted to be, as soon as he put on the wig. 

  
***  


“You all stay where I can see you!” He hears Britannica address the giggling crowd from where he waits behind the curtain. Two of his friends wait with him, with huge black feathered fans, grinning with excitement. “Douse the lights! We sure are in for a show tonight.”

Harry adjusts the soft faux fur collar of the sheer overgown, taking a deep breath. He’d been doing this for many months, but it was always nerve wracking—up until the moment the spotlight hit him, and he stepped out as someone else. 

“You can call her whatever you like, but we call her _Honey_ here…” 

The club goes pitch black, to the sound of hushed, excited whispers. He steps out from behind the curtain, his corseted friends joining him and holding up their fans to hide everything but his face. The spotlight lights up suddenly, and Harry can vaguely see the movement of clapping hands through the haze of light, as they cheer for Honey, who returns their praise with a sultry smile, tipping her head back as the music begins. 

_“Birds flying high, you know how I feel…”_

The fans flutter in front of him, more whoops from the crowd. Honey’s full, violet lips move seamlessly with the lyrics. He is Nina Simone, he is whoever he wants to be, and he can bring the crowd to their knees without an ounce of violence. 

_“Sun in the sky, you know how I feel…”_

He runs his hands through the long, wavy hair, closing his eyes in satisfaction. The fans slowly move out of his way, revealing the long, shimmery overgown, catching and refracting the spotlight. 

_“Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel…”_

He moves forward slowly, sinuously, fluidly, the sheer gown trailing along behind him, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of leg with each step. His movements have no beginning or end, like a snake, like a river. Instinctual. _Right._

_“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life, for me…”_

He reaches the edge of the stage, toeing it with the tip of his stiletto. He looks over the enraptured crowd, the small candles at their tables barely illuminating parted mouths and cheeks flushed with drink. People look at him like this in Diagon Alley, too—but not for anything he’s proud of. Here, people stare at _Honey,_ and Honey is something to be proud of.

His gaze rakes over those brave souls in the front row, and catches on a head of distinct white-blond hair. 

_“And I’m feeling good.”_

The fur collar drops to his elbows, revealing the sparkling jewels adorning his bare, smooth, copper-toned chest, the top edge of the corset that tapers his waist. His breath stutters as recognition sets in, as abrupt as the bombastic brass of the music. 

Draco _fucking_ Malfoy is sat in the middle of the front row, spread out in his red velvet chair like he owns it, long legs clad in black pleated trousers stretched confidently in front of him. His head is propped in his hand, like he’s _bored,_ and he’s idly swishing the amber liquor in his glass, just for something to do. His sharp, pale face is turning paler as grey eyes widen, fixed directly on Honey’s trademark bottle green. 

Harry’s blood is boiling. Of all the wizards to find him. 

But he is not Harry here, no matter how hard the presence of _Malfoy_ tries to drag Harry back. And Honey is enraged, as well, that this posh looking twat is sat in her front row, looking _bored_ and _far too confident._ She wants to _destroy_ him. 

Harry would just punch him, or hex him. 

Honey drops the overgown. Malfoy’s jaw drops with it. _That’s better._

The crowd whoops and whistles for her, already bills are appearing on the stage. Her fingers trace the lines of the garters on her smooth, muscled thighs, up to the lacy waistband of the tiny black shorts on her hips. 

Ideas are brewing in his head. He’ll do the normal routine, but a little something extra—he can always Obliviate Malfoy later and send him on his poncy way. 

_“Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don’t you know…”_

He walks once around the wooden stool on the stage, his hips swaying. He spins, puts his toe down on the stage, reaches down and touches it, then flips his long, black hair, running his hand up the length of Honey’s smooth leg as he straightens. 

_“Butterflies all having fun, you know what I mean…”_

Malfoy hasn’t moved, his head still propped in his hand, but now Harry can see the tension in his body, like he’s holding himself still, _vibrating_ with it. Honey sits backwards on the stool and crosses her sheer stocking-clad legs gracefully, then leans _all_ the way back, letting her hands and hair brush the floor under her head, swinging back and forth to the rhythm. She watches Malfoy’s cheeks turn pink from her upside-down vantage point, and feels a satisfied grin on her face.

_“Sleep in peace when day is done, that’s what I mean…”_

He rolls his body back up slowly, and kicks his legs like a fan, one over the other, looking over his shoulder to watch Malfoy through a couple locks of wayward black hair. He can feel some strands caught on his sticky lipstick, but that’s alright. Honey likes to be a little messy. 

He steps fluidly off the stool and makes his way toward the front of the stage, smooth as a serpent. He sends his two corseted stagehands a wink as the song blends seamlessly into the next, and he smiles as he hears Britannica whoop and laugh excitedly from the back. He very rarely does this. 

He’d tried a couple lap dances before, when someone offered Honey a big enough tip. The queens had given him plenty of pointers, but Britannica had only said _“it’s a wonderful caricature of intimacy.”_ Which, somehow, made more sense than anything else. They all emphasized the power of the queen, holding what someone desperately wants just out of reach. If he’s going to exert this newfound power over Malfoy, he wants to use it to Honey’s _fullest_ extent. 

The stagehands help him off the stage, and as Harry holds eye contact with his prey, signaling his choice, they rush over to Malfoy and push him gently back against the chair, spreading his knees apart, taking away his drink. He still seems frozen, eyes wide with shock and apprehension and what Harry _knows_ is arousal, because he’s felt it before. Malfoy could run, could easily object, but Harry knows he won’t. He’s wrapped around Harry’s finger, like the lock of Honey’s hair she’s twirling absently as she approaches him, placing her stiletto-clad foot on the velvet seat between his legs. 

The stagehands retreat, grinning mischievously. The crowd is whistling and jeering excitedly as the spotlight now rests on the powerful queen, accoutred in tight corset and glittering light and lace, and the sweaty, flustered young man at her feet. Harry smirks at him, and Malfoy swallows. He hasn’t once looked away.

_“I put a spell on you, ‘cause you’re mine…”_

Honey steps up onto the seat between his legs, looking down at him with a wicked grin as she raises her hands above her head and swings her hips back and forth, caressing her own smooth, radiant skin like she knows he wants to. The crowd cheers wildly.

_“You better stop the things you do, I ain’t lyin’...”_

She spins on her toe and drops slowly, tipping her head back to drop her hair in Malfoy’s face. He doesn’t try to move it, so she does, pulling it over her shoulder as she looks back at him in a perfectly-balanced squat between his thighs. 

_“You know I can’t stand it, your runnin’ around…”_

She leans all the way back into his chest, grinning as she hears his breath hitch next to her ear. He’s breathing heavily, breaking under her power. His hands twitch on the armrests, and she knows he wants to touch, just as she knows he won’t. She settles her feet back on the floor, pushing her shoulders into his chest and arching her back, circling her hips just above his, holding what he wants just out of reach. 

“This is exactly where you like me, isn’t it,” Malfoy mutters hoarsely in his ear, and Harry hears the unspoken _beneath you, defeated._ Harry laughs softly, lowering his arse onto his lap. He turns his face into Malfoy’s cheek.

“This is exactly where you want to be.” He grinds down onto the growing erection trapped in Malfoy’s expensive trousers, and Malfoy groans faintly, tipping his head back onto the chair, gripping the armrests for dear life. The crowd cheers salaciously.

_“I love you, I love you, anyhow…”_

Harry takes Malfoy’s wrists and raises them above their heads, running his fingers down his arms, his sides, the tensed thighs beneath his own. He swirls his hips relentlessly, his body pressed against every inch of Malfoy he can reach. 

_“And I don’t care if you don’t want me, I’m yours right now…”_

Just as Malfoy’s hips start to roll up against him, his ragged breaths heavy and quick in Harry’s ear, Harry lifts himself up, delighted when he hears Malfoy let out a soft, pitiful whimper. He rolls his body up until he’s standing, walking away slowly toward the stage, smug as anything, abandoning his powerless victim in the red velvet chair. 

_“You hear me, I put a spell on you, because you’re mine.”_

Honey steps back onto the stage, with help from her stagehands, and bows deeply as the music ends, to wild applause and cheers from the crowd. She hooks her finger into the fur collar of her gown on the floor, flips her hair as she straightens up, and sashays away behind the curtain, sending the crowd a flirtatious wink before she disappears. The applause continues for several minutes, and Britannica runs backstage to embrace her, shrieking with glee and pride. 

  
***  


He’s run out of his heavy duty makeup remover, so he has to use Dawn dish soap from the bar. 

“Put it back this time, Honey!” John the bartender calls, shaking his head fondly as he wipes down a glass. Harry flaps his hand at him, disappearing into the dressing rooms. 

“So, who was he?” Britannica asks, smirking mischievously, putting her wigs in their cases. Harry pauses in scrubbing the thick layer of paint and glue and powder off his face. 

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play, honey, you obviously knew him. Who is he?” She turns around, so Harry can help unlace the corset. He does, carefully untying and pulling the laces loose through each ring, wondering how much information to divulge. He smirks gently, coming to a decision. 

“School bully.”

Britannica gasps theatrically, twirling around and grabbing his arms, her face lighting up in shock and wicked glee. 

“You’re having me on. You gave your old school bully a _lap dance?”_

Harry just grins, and she shrieks with laughter, running out of the room with a half-untied corset and shouting her way down the hallway, “LADIES! That boy Honey _decimated_ with her fine arse? That was her old _school bully!!_ Is that not the sweetest, gayest revenge you’ve ever heard?!”

Harry chuckles and goes back to cleaning up his kit, knowing she’ll be gone a while gossipping. He untucks himself and slips back into his boxers and frayed jeans, lacing up his ratty trainers. He brainstorms ways to stop Draco before he reaches the papers, or his friends, or whoever else he wants to spill this juicy secret to—if that’s actually Draco’s intention. It was likely, but then he’d have to reveal how Honey had practically humiliated him in a queer muggle cabaret.

He shoulders his duffel and starts to make his way down the back hallway, but stops, remembers the dish soap, and returns it to the bar. The place is closed and quiet, the floor and stage empty and dark. Peaceful. Home. 

He gets a tight, congratulatory hug from everyone on his way out, and leaves through the back door with a grin on his face, palming his wand to apparate in the dank alleyway. 

“Harry.”

The grin falls immediately, and his head snaps around to see Malfoy leaning against the brick wall, confident and at ease once more, a burning cigarette held between two slender fingers. Harry could barely make him out, in the dim, red light of the alley, but he recognizes the hair, the pressed white shirt with several buttons undone at the throat, the pale, smooth skin.

It was always odd to hear his real name after a night on the stage, but he doesn’t think he’d ever heard Malfoy say his first name before—without any venom, without _Potter_ spat out right after it. 

“Draco,” he tries, just to see what it’s like. Draco won’t remember it, soon, anyway. It’s nice—nicer than _Malfoy._ His lips twitch, remembering Draco’s ragged breaths in his ear, watching him crumble at Honey’s feet. 

Draco grins, faintly, perhaps remembering the same thing. Harry pulls out his wand. Better to get this over with now. 

“Wait,” Draco says, holding his hands up and flinching as Harry aims his wand at him. “I’m—I won’t tell anyone. I swear.” 

“When have I ever been able to trust your word?”

“To be fair, I don’t think you’ve ever tried.”

Harry opens his mouth to retort, but stops himself—Draco is right. Harry had decided Draco was untrustworthy the moment he met him, when they were eleven. He’d never even _thought_ about trusting him. 

Well. _With good reason._

He adjusts the grip on his wand, still aiming carefully at Draco’s forehead. A bit of ash falls from Draco’s cigarette, and Harry calmly steals it with his free hand, taking a long drag, exhaling the smoke in Draco’s face. Draco swallows. 

“I don’t _want_ to tell anyone,” Draco mutters, eyes fixed on the cigarette between Harry’s lips. Harry takes it out, holding it between his fingers.

“Oh, really? Isn’t selling stories about me to the Prophet kind of your M.O.?”

“It used to be.” 

Harry narrows his eyes at him, moves the wand an inch closer. Draco’s hands raise an inch higher. 

“To be honest, I like being the only one in on your secret,” Draco finally admits, and Harry can’t hold back his snort. He puts the cigarette back between his lips, lowers his wand, and places his free hand in the middle of Draco’s chest, shoving him back into the brick wall. Draco grunts softly, and Harry steps closer, his face inches from Draco’s own. He takes one last drag of the cigarette and flicks it to the wet ground.

“Listen to me,” Harry says through a breath of smoke, his voice low and dangerous. _“None of this_ is for you. You shouldn’t even _be here.”_

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry, I know you don’t do it _for me—“_

“There is no _‘Harry’_ here,” Harry cuts him off through clenched teeth. “He does not exist here. There is no _‘Potter,’_ or _‘Saviour,’_ or _‘Boy Who Lived.’_ There is only _‘Honey._ ’” His fingers dig into Draco’s chest, surprisingly warm. “You nearly ruined that, tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco frowns, and Harry glares, wondering when Draco had put his hands on Harry’s sides. “Of course Harry exists here.” 

“He does _not—”_

“Honey does not _replace_ you, Harry. Honey cannot exist _without you.”_

Harry freezes, his eyes widening at Draco’s thoughtful expression. Draco’s eyes dart to his lips, his hands are sliding to Harry’s back. Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows he won’t stop him, and when had Draco so swiftly and subtly turned the tables on him?

“Where do you think Honey _comes from?”_ Draco asks, his voice softening. His silver eyes are slightly crinkled at the corners, with the ghost of a smile, radiant with something almost like _admiration._ Draco’s hands are moving slowly over Harry’s back, and Harry can feel himself blushing. He watches Draco’s face intently, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the cruel laughter, the arrogant sneer he expects from a Malfoy.

It doesn’t come. 

Honey had gotten this close to Draco to toy with him, to overpower him. Harry had only ever been this close in order to hurt him, to _win._ It had always felt _good_ to be this close to Malfoy, because it meant feeling powerful—the sweet, coppery taste of violence, of victory. _Release._

But Honey hadn’t been violent, even at the height of her power tonight. Harry feels like he’s wearing her hands, now, the only ones that know how to touch softly—he watches it move over Draco’s chest in fascination, scarred bronze skin against crisp white fabric.

_“Where do you think Honey comes from?”_

“I quite like both,” Draco mumbles absently, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and Harry’s hand on his chest slides up to his neck, into his soft, blond hair, reflecting pink from the fuchsia sconce by the back door of the club. Draco’s eyes flutter closed at the feeling, and as Harry watches the pink shadows move over Draco’s skin, he realizes that Malfoy is _beautiful._

He feels quiet resolve filling his brain, the kind he feels right before a duel, or a fistfight, or stepping out in six inch heels. The kind that tells him his body is going to move however it wants to. 

Instinctual. _Right._

He collides with Draco and kisses him, and Draco draws a sharp breath of surprise, but recovers quickly, his arms tightening around Harry’s waist. His lips are soft and warm and wet—he’s _lovely,_ Harry thinks, something he’d never thought he’d use to describe Draco Malfoy. He nibbles on Draco’s full bottom lip, drawing a sweet, satisfied sound from Draco’s throat. 

Draco slips his tongue between Harry’s teeth, and Harry lets him, tangling his hand in Draco’s hair. He tastes like cigarettes and brandy, like guilty pleasures. Harry arches into him, pressing himself against Draco’s warm, firm body, angling his head to chase that sweet taste in his mouth. 

Harry has another jolting revelation that Draco knew, the entire time, that it was _Harry_ on the stage, that was _Harry_ in his lap, and Draco _loved it._ Draco is beautiful, his kisses are _lovely,_ and he was _enthralled_ by Harry tonight, who brought him to his knees without an ounce of violence.

Draco wants to be the only person allowed to see Harry like that. To know Harry and Honey _both._

Harry’s whole body feels warm, hypersensitive to Draco’s wandering touch. He can’t stop a whimper from escaping his throat, and Draco only kisses him harder, his hand sliding down into the back pocket of Harry’s threadbare jeans. 

“Oh, _fuck it,”_ Harry growls, breathing hard, his hand tight on the back of Draco’s neck. He grips his wand, lifts his shoulder to adjust the strap of his duffel, and apparates them straight to Grimmauld Place, without even asking, all thoughts of Obliviations forgotten. 

  


~

**Author's Note:**

> I know. 
> 
> Now I can get back to writing surly himbo Auror Harry. 
> 
> [Tumblr!](https://lou-isfake.tumblr.com/)


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